Lingering
by Charlie Winchester
Summary: His psychic powers may have disappeared with the Yellow Eyed Demon, but that didn’t stop the creepy feeling he’d get right before she showed up... SamRuby.


**Author's Note: Hi all, this is my first attempt at writing anything resembling smut, so any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks.**

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_**i. sound**_

He can always hear her before he sees her, and before that, he can sense her. He doesn't have the faintest clue where the hell she comes from, or how the back of his neck prickles and his fingers tingle just before he hears soft footsteps behind him. It's an odd feeling, not quite chilling, but not pleasant either, and he knows exactly who it is.

The soft pat-pat of her sneakers is almost familiar now, squeaking without actually _squeaking _on the pavement because he's standing in the motel parking lot craving fresh air.

"Sammy," her voice, probably permanently stained with sarcasm, greets from behind him.

_It's Sam,_ he doesn't say. Grits his teeth. "Ruby."

The footsteps stop; he can feel her close. He refuses to turn, instead focuses his attention on a rock by his feet. It's times like these when his hatred of her is strongest, when she's standing there in all her cynicism, her demonic glory. Her know-it-all attitude, the way she keeps him and Dean on a need to know basis, infuriates him.

"Whatsa matter, Sam? Dean out fulfilling another dying wish?"

The anger flares. In one smooth movement, he spins on one heel, jerks her toward him with one arm, and propels her through the ajar motel room door, slamming it shut with an open palm. He 

then shoves her hard against the cool surface, smirking a little with satisfaction as he head hits the door.

Her eyes flash black at him. "Why, Sammy," she breathes, a wicked smile curving her lips, "I haven't seen this side of you in quite a while. You're wound pretty tight, aren'tcha?"

_**ii. sight**_

In a split second, the black's gone, revealing devilish blue-green irises flickering with amusement- no doubt satisfied at provoking him, so he forces the red-hot fury down and lets her go, stumbling backwards to put some distance between them.

He sucks in a breath, exhales long. Assesses her warily while he fights to stay calm.

Her blonde hair fans her face, messy from being pushed around, eyes narrowed and gleaming. Calculating. There's a fading scratch across one cheekbone from god only knows what. Lips still silently sneering at him. Taunting him. The stubborn jut of her chin tells him she's not afraid of him.

_God _he hates her.

She breaks the silence with another comment and a disdainful roll of her eyes. "Really, could you be any more emo? How does Dean deal?"

He glares fiercely. "I'm not, and he's too busy telling me what I can and can't do with the Impala after he's gone!" His words grow louder and more punctuated as he gets angry again. "All we're doing is fighting, _all _the _goddamned time_, because he's only got two weeks left and he doesn't even want to be saved!"

She opens her mouth to say something, but he jabs a finger in her direction and adds, "Why'd you lie, huh Ruby? You said you could."

When she doesn't say anything, he sighs.

"You're not different. You're just like the rest of them, a cold-blooded, black-hearted demon," he accuses, but the words are devoid of emotion. He's so tired. Tired of fighting, of yelling, of thinking so much and of waiting and trying to find solutions and wishing time wouldn't fly by so fucking _fast._

_**iii. smell **_

"Don't you dare." She takes two steps forward till they're less than a foot apart, pokes a finger back at him. "Don't even _think _about looping me in with those morons after _all _I've done for you."

His pulse is high and his blood is hot, racing through his veins like iron. He towers over her, furious, and she doesn't even blink, not even when his voice drops to a low murmur, deceptively quiet while his green eyes are dark with anger. "Fuck. You."

One slender eyebrow arches gracefully. "Is that the best you've got? My god, Sam, grow a backbone."

In a flash, his arm is extended, Colt in hand, muzzle cold against her forehead, vaguely aware of the strong scent of vanilla that surrounds her. Then he wonders why he knows this and presses the barrel harder to her skin, hot breath skimming across her face, and past her ears, fighting the temptation to drop the gun and just kick her the hell out.

"You won't," she tells him, and, at his look, "Kick me out."

Startled, he wipes the expression from his face.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you, _right now._"

Something flickers in her eyes; comes and goes too fast for him to catch.

He clicks off the safety.

Kill her, kill her, kill her. He focuses on the words beating like a drum inside his head. He even knows what Dean would have said and done had he been here. _"Kill her already, Sam! She's a demon. She deserves to be blown away." _

She holds his gaze, indifferent. "Why you shouldn't kill me, hmm," she drawls, leaning closer and closer until the space left between them is nonexistent. "You... don't... have... it... in... you..." drawn out slowly, and the next thing he knows, his lips are on hers.

_**iv. taste**_

She doesn't taste like vanilla. Or sulphur, which surprises him. It's peppermint he detects when his tongue delves into her mouth, faint traces of the gum she was chewing earlier clinging to her 

lips. His mind slows down and his head spins and it's every bad cliché mixed with everything so very wrong about it but he doesn't stop, can't stop, and really _really _kind of... doesn't.. want to.

It's strange, their mouths fused together, he's not touching her, and yet he doesn't notice. Too caught up in the taste of her, the mind-blowing sensations coursing through him. Too preoccupied because he's _kissing Ruby_ and she's not yelling at him or flinging him across the room.

And the world is beginning to fade away.

He has no idea why this all doesn't matter now and why he feels so _fine _and goddamned _okay, _not like he's kissing a _fucking_ _demon_. Barely a nick and the wood and he just _doesn't care._

_**v. touch **_

He can vaguely register her raising on her tiptoes, fingers curling around his forearms.

... And the very last hint of doubt flees. She tears away and gasps, "This doesn't change anything," pulling his head back down.

"Not at all," he growls, scraping his teeth along her neck. Her back arches then, involuntarily, and his hands span her waist, _ridiculously large hands, _she thinks, and up, up, she's lifted. She locks her legs around him and he drives them forward until her back hits the door.

Wrong, so wrong, but he doesn't care. Won't care.

Without missing a beat, he tears off her jacket as her fingers make quick work of the buttons on his shirt. More articles of clothing go flying, and soon it's all warm bare skin and they can't stop touching. He grips the back of her neck to keep her from falling back and moves for the bed. _Goosebumps_ he feels on her arms and pins her down hard, crushing their lips together with one arm on either side of her shoulders.

A flick of her wrist and his jeans are down, followed by his boxers. Then she shimmies out of hers and he's thrusting into her, hard and fast, and the world is actually _tilting _on its axis. There's no gentleness, no soft words murmured in her ear like a bad romance novel, just _Sam_ and she clutches at him desperately to keep from losing herself.

"Ngh_Samgod_" she grits her teeth against a groan, buries her head in the crook of his shoulder. Sucks in a breath.

This isn't the Sam she knows, or thinks she knows, or maybe doesn't at all. This is killed-the-crossroads-demon Sam, the one who's eyes go almost scarily dark, emotionless and yet so full of expression, so lacking the usual quiet and compassion and understanding and _oh, Sam..._

He turns his head, catching her mouth with his.

Not so strange anymore.

Their eyes meet, a clash of green and blue-green as he sinks down once more. She explodes in a flash of white-hot pleasure and something resembling pain but it's _okay _somehow, shudders as the waves roll over her. His grip on control shatters into a million pieces with his release, and, arms shaking, he drops next to her on the bed, trying to control his breathing.

"Doesn't... change... anything..."

They're millimetres away when she says it, even though her body aches for him, and he mumbles an agreement, despite the fact that he's half-hard again already from her whisper in his ear.

When he wakes up the next morning she's gone. And yet...

He knows before _she _does that she's coming that night.


End file.
